


Stormy Monday

by San



Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/San/pseuds/San
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon and John share a limo and more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stormy Monday

He's staring out the window, head tilted ever so slightly. He's also chewing on his lower lip. The gray storm clouds outside emphasize the healthy pink of his skin, the rich brown of his hair. Those ridiculous blonde bangs.

His eyes narrow slightly and his lips twist, and I know something dangerous or ugly just crossed his mind.

I could interrupt his train of thought, but I'd rather wait until he notices that I'm staring at him. Studying him.

A flare of lightning announces the beginning of the storm, the rain coming down as it only does in desert states. He closes his eyes and presses on them lightly: the contact wearer's gesture. I wonder where he's left his eye drops this time.

I'm sure he's wondering the same thing.

He opens his eyes and looks around the room, finally catching my gaze. I smile, faintly.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, a little sharply.

"You wouldn't approve," I tell him. "You'll consider it inappropriate for the venue."

"Try me."

Smile broadening, I crook my finger, drawing him closer. Lips skewing to one side, he gets up and comes to me - a minor triumph in my world - and leans over, placing his hands on the arms of my chair. Short as it is, his hair still falls around his face, shielding us slightly from the rest of the room.

"I'm thinking about the taste of you," I say, softly.

His eyebrows arc. "I see." He starts to pull back, but I catch his wrists in my hands. It's not a casual  
gesture.

For just a moment the old energy arcs between us. I can see the shift in his thoughts; he turns his head slightly. Making sure we're still alone.

Naturally, the door opens and the assistant tells us they're ready for us in the studio.

The interview goes fine; better than some, worse than others. He's in rare form, which is good, because I'm distracted. I know there's been some talk amongst the fans about the fact that he and I are always together. It's true. I'm afraid to let him out of my sight. Afraid he'll just up and vanish on me again.

Nick took it much easier than I did, that betrayal, but then Nick just sort of takes whatever happens. One of these days he's going to snap and that will be that, I suppose. Hope I'm there to see it. Should be pretty spectacular.

John's looking at me oddly, and I realize that I've just been asked a question. A young me would have tried to bluff it out; now I ask for a repeat without apology.

"Mind elsewhere?" the host asks, and shame on me but I've already forgotten his name.

I shrug and grin. "It happens."

"To some more than others," John interjects, and we all have a laugh about it. Johnny thinks he knows exactly where my mind was, though, I can see it in the quirk of his smile. The look I get from the corner of his eye.

Wouldn't he be surprised.

Eventually we all stand up and shake hands; Johnny and I stop to sign autographs - one of them on the studio  
wall. There's quite a random collection; I sign between Lou Reed and, of all people, Bette Middler. I bet Johnny doesn't even notice where he's signing; he's doing it all by rote. Which strikes me as funny - he's been as up about this project as the rest of us.

Shows, too. Even the fans are really excited again. And I can't wait to tour - a full tour, not just dates here and there supporting an album we aren't sure we can sell. It was so nice on those shows to know that if I look over to my right he's going to be there, where he should be. My right-hand man.

"What are you grinning at?"

"You're in a mood."

"Well, you could have said more in there." He's not really grumpy, though he's putting on a good show as we walk through the lobby.

"Didn't have much to add. You said it all."

"Hmpf." The slantwise look he gives me is wicked in the extreme. "You do the next one, then."

I groan. I'd forgotten.

"How many do we have, today?"

"Three, but the last one's with the whole band. And you're running late, so come on."

I love this "keeper." She's brisk and efficient. And not at all my type. She hustles us out and through the crowd, though I think for a change we'd both love to stop and sign for a while. Feed off that energy.

At least, until we get out from under the overhang. The rain's still coming down, which surprises me. I always thought desert storms were supposed to be short and fierce. Still, the distance between the front door and the car isn't far, so we only sort of get very wet traversing it.

John bends over in the front seat and fluffs out his hair, sending droplets onto the window and the leather  
seats, which earns him a filthy look. But the motion's sent me back into the gutter and I lean back in the seat to watch him again. He's more in tune to me this time and looks up over his shoulder, meeting my gaze. The pose more  
than the look sends blood rushing to my groin and I blink innocently at him. He shakes his head slightly and turns away.

How in the hell am I going to make it through two more interviews?

We finally get where we're going; John doesn't look back at me the whole time, of course. I watch what I can see of his profile and sternly instruct myself that I have to behave, like it or not. Don't bother with Homer's "think unsexy  
thoughts," though. That never works.

He slings himself out of the car and I follow; it's still raining, so we sprint for the building. Radio station, this time; no green room, no chance for privacy. Probably for the best, given the way my body reacts when our hands connect, catching the door handle at the same time. He lets go and slips inside; I play the gentleman and hold the door  
open for our keeper. Why she gives me a filthy look I don't know; it's not our fault we have long legs.

Keeping in mind the hang-ups of the American media, I manage to get through answering the questions without any bleeps. I think. John's not helping. He keeps brushing his knees against mine. Wouldn't be so bad if I could tell if the bastard's doing it on purpose or not, but there's never much room in radio studios.

Anyway.

I answer the questions, as promised; John gets in a zinger here and there, as he likes to do; we sign a few autographs and pose for a few pictures with fans who've won the right to be in the studio and then we're whisked back out into the rain and the car.

"Better?" I ask him.

He turns around, laying his arm along the seatback.

"I suppose. We're even, now, anyway."

"Something like."

That's not a smile he gives me. It's a smirk. Damn, I do want him. I wonder how time has changed him, what  
he knows now that he didn't know when we were kids. He leans back in the seat and closes his eyes; with a sigh, I do the same. Our destination's not far enough for a catnap, but I can at least pretend to self-control. Right?

We arrive early at our final location for the day; this place, thank the heavens, has an underground garage,  
so no more getting wet. I can't believe it's still raining. We walk casually to the door, minder in our wake. Upon reaching the elevator, John glances over at me.

"Suppose we can let Nick handle this one?" He pushes the button.

"If he wants to, I don't suppose we can stop him."

That darkness is back in his eyes. He's a lousy poker face where some things are concerned. My comment makes  
him grin, anyway.

The elevator door slides open and the three of us get in. And again, I don't know if signals are being sent or if I'm just sensitive to his presence, but I swear John's standing closer than normal to me, in an average-sized elevator. The hair on my upper arm stands up beneath my shirt with the proximity, little receivers for the heat of his skin.

We don't look at each other all the way up. Another video interview this time, with God knows who for God knows what cable station. We're dropped in the green room and the keeper heads out, probably looking for the other three or for word of them.

"What's funny?" He leans against the wall, studying the monitor. I flop into one of the two couches.

"Just wondering if we're early, or if we've lost two Taylors and a Bates this time. Perhaps they've been washed into a river."

He rolls his eyes, tip of his tongue tapping the corner of his mouth. It's his turn to study me, I guess, as his eyes settle on my face. Fortunately, I've a healthy ego, and the scrutiny doesn't bother me. Much.

"Weather is interesting," he says. "Thought this was a desert state."

"I gave up on figuring out America a long time ago. You're the one who lives here."

He laughs, shakes his head, and comes over to the couch. "Los Angeles. I live in Los Angeles, Simon. That's some five or six hundred miles from here, at least."

"Is it?" I'm struggling to keep my air of nonchalance, my easy pose. This is just his sort of scene, his element of risk. He drops onto the couch next to me, close enough that we both feel the run of adrenaline.

"What's the matter, Simon?"

Oh, sure. Now he's got his game face on.

"What're you up to, Johnny?"

The smile is crooked, again, but he doesn't answer the question. But then, I know he's not going to, even  
before he hooks his calf over my shin and his fingers find my wrist.

At the moment, his mouth tastes of cinnamon and tobacco. My hand's caught in the silkiness of his hair, his is tight on the back of my neck. My attention is torn between the rush of blood to my groin, the fierce firmness of the kiss, and trying to listen for the click of the door.

He lets go of my wrist in favor of stroking my cock through my pants, playing me as deftly as he plays his bass.  
I break the kiss.

"Dammit, Johnny."

His chuckle, low and rough, sends a shiver up my spine. "Relax. She won't be back, if we're quick enough."

"And if someone's watching?"

He presses his forehead to mine and shakes his head, unzipping my fly. "No one's watching." I have to admit, what he's doing with his fingers is making it very difficult for me to care. My thumb strokes his jaw, and we kiss again.

It takes some shifting around to find a comfortable position for the both of us; I get his shirt un-tucked and slide my fingers lightly along his sides down to his hips, making him shiver. I'll bet neither of us has a condom, and I really don't care. I'm as deft with his zipper as he was with mine, and dip my hand in, pulling out his cock and  
balls.

The smile we share is knowing; I slide down his body to take him into my mouth. I already know it's not going  
to be reciprocal, not this time, and I really don't care about that, either. I'm mildly irritated at having to rush the job, but he's right about having to be quick about it.

His hands dig into my hair; his hips arch up. I feel his nails dig into my scalp; they'll leave a mark, but better there than elsewhere. No games, no ridiculous shyness; his need sated, we kiss again. I tuck him away, his fingers once again playing their rhythm on my hard-on. He swallows my cries as I reach my own climax, somehow keeping us from making too much noise - or too much of a mess. I don't know when he grabbed the napkin, or from where, but the rough linen is almost more than I can bear as he finishes cleaning up. He zips me, and we look at each other for a long moment.

The ball game's on the monitor in the green room and we're lounging on opposite ends of the couch when our  
keeper comes in, with Nick, Roger and Andy and their keeper in tow. Roger drops into the other couch and yawns, hugely, glancing at the TV. Andy heads for the bottles (water) at the bar. Nick, on the other hand, tilts his head as he studies the two of us.

"Picking up where we left off, are we?" He inquires, in that innocent-yet-knowing way only he can pull off. John gives him a Cheshire cat grin, and I shrug.

Guess I'll make it through this last interview, after all.


End file.
